Clockwork Burning
by MissBowtie
Summary: He can hear nine chimes, clockwork telling him that it is time. Not time to leave, no: Time to watch. Time for Sherlock Holmes, after two years of being 'dead', to watch John Watson. Time to be a man, not a machine, and feel what is ignored. *One-shot*


**CLOCKWORK BURNING**

...

He is two things: a machine, and a man.

The machine is a self-diagnosed sociopathic, unfeeling monster, bred of ridicule and insecurities and is his way of putting up barriers, making sure that if anymore came close enough they would run (_run so far and so fast_) so they weren't hurt.

The man can feel, and that is the reason his heart is burning.

...

The London night is cool and majestic, all enigma and metaphor and simile. A man crouches on the top of a building, watching as the sun dips behind the horizon and the city continues to hum its own little tune of living. As he adjusts, the streetlight catches his face, and for one brief second you can really see what he is.

On the surface, this man is cold. High cheekbones are a throne for piercing, intelligent eyes that emit a chill that freezes souls and leaves insecurity within. His lips, set in a stiff, white line, deter the non-existant questions of faceless askers. But then - there, as he turns away - the shadows beneath his eyes bleed darkness, the hollowness of his cheeks too unnatural to be normal, and beneath those sharp, sharp eyes is a burning so raw and so intense it cannot be ignored.

Sherlock Holmes is waiting.

...

It happens four hours later.

Sherlock is still perched on the rooftop, ignoring the way his body betrays him by shivering from lack of body fat and proper clothing. His fingers, frigid without his gloves (_left in the pocket of his coat, taken back to Baker street after...after _then_)_, find a pathway through his unruly, lengthening curls, trying to ease the pressure that has built in the base of his skull as a result of thinking too hard - stressing too hard - about this time. It took him an entire night, spent in a dingy hotel room on the outskirts of London and then within his Mind Palace, figuring out whether or not he should come to this spot. The result is now obvious, but twelve hours previously Sherlock's heart and mind were at war.

He can hear nine chimes, clockwork telling him that it is time. Not time to leave, no: Time to watch.

Stumbling down the street, Doctor John H. Watson leans heavily on his cane as he approaches 221b Baker Street.

Sherlock sighs in relief, observing from the building top opposite his previous lodging. He knew Mrs. Hudson had convinced John to come back home a year ago. A year ago...It had been two years since Sherlock's 'death'. Time has both been suspended and has flown.

As John fumbles with his keys, Sherlock catalogs his movements. Drunk, obvious from his gait and lack of concentration (_don't think about the tear stains on his cheeks; it's not certain he has been drinking and remembering again_), thinner (_he forgot to eat, he forgets most things now, it hurt but now it's beginning to numb_), not sleeping (_nightmares_), met with Lestrade tonight (_and got drunk and sobbed about how he can't stop remembering_), seeing Harry tomorrow (_where he'll put up a brave face and will be stoic, no, questions will not be answered_).

He went to Sherlock's grave today.

Of course, Sherlock wasn't there then, since even this moment watching John now was risky, but if he had been he may just be escaping to his Mind Palace now, in shock and resisting the urge to reveal his state of living. The plain black headstone and empty grave bore witness to the first time John Watson ever admitted aloud that he loved Sherlock Holmes, but then felt a stabbing in his ribcage that meant his heart was slowly being crushed again, which led to him limping out of the cemetry and calling Lestrade out for a drink to drown his sorrows.

And because Sherlock didn't know this, he dismissed the aching that ran through his whole body that told him that John was not okay, and that he should give up the silly charade now because **oh-God-Sherlock-John-is-still-in-pain**.

But this is when the new phone in Sherlock's pocket chimes with a text from Molly, telling him that she got the information he needed about the location of some of Moriarty's associates, and before Sherlock the man could feel one more emotion, Sherlock the machine came back from the corner of his mind and forced him to move off the building, travel to Molly's flat and, for the time being, forget about John.

The next time Sherlock was allowed to feel again was twelve hours later, when the clock chimed and his heart continued to burn.

...

_Please drop a review and thanks for reading my first attempt at a Sherlock fic!_

_-MissBowtie_


End file.
